Seven. That's how many months it has been since my brother's marriage imploded, and there seems to be no end to this shit show. His divorce hasn't been filed or finished. He's just in full on wallow mode.
When I think of my own personal divorce timeline, where was I at the 7 month mark? 10 Days after my marriage imploded, I got a PO box, I got a storage unit, and I I moved into my cousin's house for that transitional first year. By the 7th month, guess what? I was divorced and moving my life forward.
He's been living in mom's house since December, and hasn't managed to pay any of the utilities in that time, and pretty much he's been a huge hinderance to the sale of mom's house.
Two more months from now will be exactly one year since mom fell and fractured & dislocated her shoulder, and landed her in Shady Pines--she decided she wanted to stay permanently. I don't know what she tells other relatives, but I'm sure she plays it up as if we had her put away. Whatever. I have neither the time nor the energy nor the GIVE A FUCK to even entertain HER fuckery any further.
Anyway, we were hoping the house would have been sold in February, but our brother has been, shall we say, uncooperative in making himself available for building inspections and the like. He's also been severely lacking in appreciation and awareness of how truly special our sister's boss is. Sis' boss not only bought $6K of our brother's hoarded collectibles, but the boss is also planning on buying the house, and plan on renting it to our brother with the option for our brother to buy it.
All of that, of course, hinges on whether our brother is capable of writing a check and paying his bills in full and on time. It has become crystal clear to my sister and I, that this will not end well.
When I returned from vacation, sis zapped me this photo, and said, "The inspection for the certificate of occupancy was Friday."
To see this photo, it's pretty much heartbreaking for me. First and foremost, it is as if my father were resurrected from the dead. All of this junk was in the garage in October. Remember October, when I went there and helped sis prep the house for the estate sale, and was left to bust my ass to empty the garage because our brother went into the garage to "help himself" a la American Pickers-style, to whatever treasures lie beneath the detritus, and of course left the garage as-is?
By the time I was done by midnight, there were roughly two dozen black "lawn and leaf" garbage bags loaded up and the garage was respectably clean for not just an estate sale, but for new owners to MOVE IN.
Bask in the chaos of that photo. Look at the breathtaking way our shit-head brother daisy-chained those extension cords and draped them up and over the garage door opener!
"Sure, I have a fire extinguisher," he assured sis before the inspection. Of course, he had a fire extinguisher that expired in 1997--an extinguisher that no doubt dad bought.
Bask in the outright lack of a clear path in and out of the garage.
The mind reels.
If the house doesn't sell soon, Shady Pines could presumably put a lien on the house, and then we can't see it until the debt at Shady Pines has been met.
Sis is furious, and I am hoping she is furious to actually do something that needs doing, and I don't mean for him--I mean FOR HER. She needs to just STOP.
She informed him that if her boss does go along with the sale of the house and then decides later his hoarding is a problem, our brother could be evicted. "Are you going to do what you can to make sure that doesn't happen?" His pathetic reply was, "Uh, I guess."
He basically went from living with mom and dad who paid the bills, to being married, and his wife paid the bills (or at least paid them up until about five years ago). He doesn't have an email address and doesn't know how to balance a check book or pay bills on line or any basic household management. He was a diesel mechanic for 18 years, and for the last 2-3 (perhaps a bit longer), he has been a foreman in his garage since due to his defibrillator, he can no longer work as a diesel mechanic--so it's not as if he doesn't know how to function. I mean, he's a MANAGER where he works, and he holds down a full time job and makes money.
There is no easy or obvious answer as to how or why he doesn't understand the concept of the necessity of paying your bills or else your electric or water gets cut off, or your car gets repossessed. You would think the fact HIS HOUSE went into foreclosure would have driven the point home: you pay your bills or you could become homeless.
My sister and I devoted each of our respective sessions with our therapist to this topic this week. Sis and brother both use the same therapist and sis provided the photo above to punctuate how bad the hoarding is, and sis said she didn't know what she should do about it. Her therapist said, "There is nothing for you to do."
Her therapist further went on to say that she believes hoarding comes out of borderline personality disorder and trauma, and possibly of sexual abuse. Sis then went on to remind me of this kid (who went to school with me) who mom babysat (along with his sister), and how this kid nearly got one of our brother's friends to fellate him. The boy's mother threatened to call the cops, and of course mom only ceased to babysit this kid due to peer pressure. My sister went on to remind me how ALL OF US were molested by this kid. Mercifully, I cannot remember it myself. I won't contradict sis, she's probably right. I just cannot remember it at this moment.**
We did the math this morning, and sis was about 11, which means our brother was 10. And that pretty much could be the reason why he's got this pre-pubescent fascination with pornography. Perhaps.
My conversation with my sister started on the phone, and hilariously enough I continued talking to her on speaker phone while I was in the shower and then brushing my teeth as I was getting ready for work--and then later, after I dropped the Maharajah at the train, and I picked up the conversation via text, and this is what I sent my sister:
I then sent her this song (I hope it embeds properly):
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MRge0RCBWSk" frameborder="0" allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen></iframe>
So we're both angry and resentful of our parents for creating this monster, but who knows what the percentage of blame they should shoulder on this one. But still. It's there. And we are both nearing 50, and wondering when our own lives will begin, instead of being an extension of the fuckery that is our parents' (and now, brother's) dysfunction and abuse.
RAGE? RIGHT ON TIME!
Mother's Day is coming up this weekend. Great. My least favorite holiday. And every year for as long as I could remember (okay, perhaps it's closer to 35 years), I have anguished every fucking year, to try and find the least personal and most neutral Mother's Day card that conveys "I am sorry I shredded your vagina on the way out" and "thanks for not completely destroying my sense of self."
This year, I finally figured it all out: when I finally find this year's card, I was going to buy several, so then I don't have to engage in this annual act of futility again--or that is what I dare to hope.
So why five? See, if I bought TEN, she'd die next year. And if I bought two, she'd die THREE years from now. I figured I'd split the difference and get five. And why are three of them identical? Well, there weren't five of those kitten cards available, and I had to make do with the other two cards.
I plan on staggering them, sending out the kitten card on top for this year, and alternate each year. Neither is she a sentimental person who keeps cards, nor does she have the storage space for that. It'll just clutter up her room at Shady Pines. It's doubtful she will remember two years from now when she gets the second kitten card, as the card will no doubt find its way into the trash bin within the week.
**I mentioned to my sister how at this point in my life, I do not know with certainty HOW MANY people have molested me--if not raped me. I blame my mother for this. Her brother and cousin molested me (each, in separate incidents), the cousin digitally raped me; and part of me feels pretty certain on a primal kind of level of KNOW IT IN MY GUT that my grandfather did something inappropriate to me when I was too small to verbally articulate anything. I remember being maybe ten, and I called him a pedophile, and other than my grandfather being offended, nothing else came of it--and it makes me wonder how "ten year old me" even knew what that word meant. Then there are countless other incidents, among them Gary--the kid my mom babysat, and others. Sad, but true, but, I didn't really start to cultivate self-esteem until I married the Maharajah, and that's been only within the last 17 years or so.
Too often, I have heard people (I suppose, they think they are being well-intentioned) say, "I am sure she did her best." Well, what if her best wasn't good enough? There is much more to being a PARENT than fucking and squirting a baby into the world. A huge part of being a PARENT is sustaining and protecting a child. As I near the age of 50, I've been working at sustaining and protecting myself and conditioning myself to no longer abide nor make excuses for ABUSE.
It is pretty sobering to think that what my parents thought was "parenting" was in actuality, emotionally damaging abuse. My sister and I each have our own issues to deal with, emotionally and of course our own physical medical issues, yet, somehow, we have managed to escape our abusive past and be considered by most people (and of course, our therapists) to be "high functioning," I look at my brother and look at how much worse he's been damaged--the jury is still out on whether or not he will be able to live on his own independently, or whether his own demons will render him homeless.
Tragic.
When I think of my own personal divorce timeline, where was I at the 7 month mark? 10 Days after my marriage imploded, I got a PO box, I got a storage unit, and I I moved into my cousin's house for that transitional first year. By the 7th month, guess what? I was divorced and moving my life forward.
He's been living in mom's house since December, and hasn't managed to pay any of the utilities in that time, and pretty much he's been a huge hinderance to the sale of mom's house.
Two more months from now will be exactly one year since mom fell and fractured & dislocated her shoulder, and landed her in Shady Pines--she decided she wanted to stay permanently. I don't know what she tells other relatives, but I'm sure she plays it up as if we had her put away. Whatever. I have neither the time nor the energy nor the GIVE A FUCK to even entertain HER fuckery any further.
Anyway, we were hoping the house would have been sold in February, but our brother has been, shall we say, uncooperative in making himself available for building inspections and the like. He's also been severely lacking in appreciation and awareness of how truly special our sister's boss is. Sis' boss not only bought $6K of our brother's hoarded collectibles, but the boss is also planning on buying the house, and plan on renting it to our brother with the option for our brother to buy it.
All of that, of course, hinges on whether our brother is capable of writing a check and paying his bills in full and on time. It has become crystal clear to my sister and I, that this will not end well.
When I returned from vacation, sis zapped me this photo, and said, "The inspection for the certificate of occupancy was Friday."
By the time I was done by midnight, there were roughly two dozen black "lawn and leaf" garbage bags loaded up and the garage was respectably clean for not just an estate sale, but for new owners to MOVE IN.
Bask in the chaos of that photo. Look at the breathtaking way our shit-head brother daisy-chained those extension cords and draped them up and over the garage door opener!
"Sure, I have a fire extinguisher," he assured sis before the inspection. Of course, he had a fire extinguisher that expired in 1997--an extinguisher that no doubt dad bought.
Bask in the outright lack of a clear path in and out of the garage.
The mind reels.
If the house doesn't sell soon, Shady Pines could presumably put a lien on the house, and then we can't see it until the debt at Shady Pines has been met.
Sis is furious, and I am hoping she is furious to actually do something that needs doing, and I don't mean for him--I mean FOR HER. She needs to just STOP.
She informed him that if her boss does go along with the sale of the house and then decides later his hoarding is a problem, our brother could be evicted. "Are you going to do what you can to make sure that doesn't happen?" His pathetic reply was, "Uh, I guess."
He basically went from living with mom and dad who paid the bills, to being married, and his wife paid the bills (or at least paid them up until about five years ago). He doesn't have an email address and doesn't know how to balance a check book or pay bills on line or any basic household management. He was a diesel mechanic for 18 years, and for the last 2-3 (perhaps a bit longer), he has been a foreman in his garage since due to his defibrillator, he can no longer work as a diesel mechanic--so it's not as if he doesn't know how to function. I mean, he's a MANAGER where he works, and he holds down a full time job and makes money.
There is no easy or obvious answer as to how or why he doesn't understand the concept of the necessity of paying your bills or else your electric or water gets cut off, or your car gets repossessed. You would think the fact HIS HOUSE went into foreclosure would have driven the point home: you pay your bills or you could become homeless.
My sister and I devoted each of our respective sessions with our therapist to this topic this week. Sis and brother both use the same therapist and sis provided the photo above to punctuate how bad the hoarding is, and sis said she didn't know what she should do about it. Her therapist said, "There is nothing for you to do."
Her therapist further went on to say that she believes hoarding comes out of borderline personality disorder and trauma, and possibly of sexual abuse. Sis then went on to remind me of this kid (who went to school with me) who mom babysat (along with his sister), and how this kid nearly got one of our brother's friends to fellate him. The boy's mother threatened to call the cops, and of course mom only ceased to babysit this kid due to peer pressure. My sister went on to remind me how ALL OF US were molested by this kid. Mercifully, I cannot remember it myself. I won't contradict sis, she's probably right. I just cannot remember it at this moment.**
We did the math this morning, and sis was about 11, which means our brother was 10. And that pretty much could be the reason why he's got this pre-pubescent fascination with pornography. Perhaps.
My conversation with my sister started on the phone, and hilariously enough I continued talking to her on speaker phone while I was in the shower and then brushing my teeth as I was getting ready for work--and then later, after I dropped the Maharajah at the train, and I picked up the conversation via text, and this is what I sent my sister:
Here is an image for you: you and I are each in a separate canoe, each paddling away from the past the we cannot control: mom, dad, our brother, everything negative and hurtful.
I'm a bit further from you, paddling my canoe, and you're behind me, and behind you is the Titanic, up-ended, half sinking. Mom and our brother are The Titanic in this metaphor. They want to tether themselves to us in our canoes, and instead of keeping THEM afloat, it ends up sinking ALL OF US.
JUST KEEP PADDLING, KID!!
I then sent her this song (I hope it embeds properly):
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MRge0RCBWSk" frameborder="0" allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen></iframe>
So we're both angry and resentful of our parents for creating this monster, but who knows what the percentage of blame they should shoulder on this one. But still. It's there. And we are both nearing 50, and wondering when our own lives will begin, instead of being an extension of the fuckery that is our parents' (and now, brother's) dysfunction and abuse.
RAGE? RIGHT ON TIME!
Mother's Day is coming up this weekend. Great. My least favorite holiday. And every year for as long as I could remember (okay, perhaps it's closer to 35 years), I have anguished every fucking year, to try and find the least personal and most neutral Mother's Day card that conveys "I am sorry I shredded your vagina on the way out" and "thanks for not completely destroying my sense of self."
This year, I finally figured it all out: when I finally find this year's card, I was going to buy several, so then I don't have to engage in this annual act of futility again--or that is what I dare to hope.
So why five? See, if I bought TEN, she'd die next year. And if I bought two, she'd die THREE years from now. I figured I'd split the difference and get five. And why are three of them identical? Well, there weren't five of those kitten cards available, and I had to make do with the other two cards.
I plan on staggering them, sending out the kitten card on top for this year, and alternate each year. Neither is she a sentimental person who keeps cards, nor does she have the storage space for that. It'll just clutter up her room at Shady Pines. It's doubtful she will remember two years from now when she gets the second kitten card, as the card will no doubt find its way into the trash bin within the week.
**I mentioned to my sister how at this point in my life, I do not know with certainty HOW MANY people have molested me--if not raped me. I blame my mother for this. Her brother and cousin molested me (each, in separate incidents), the cousin digitally raped me; and part of me feels pretty certain on a primal kind of level of KNOW IT IN MY GUT that my grandfather did something inappropriate to me when I was too small to verbally articulate anything. I remember being maybe ten, and I called him a pedophile, and other than my grandfather being offended, nothing else came of it--and it makes me wonder how "ten year old me" even knew what that word meant. Then there are countless other incidents, among them Gary--the kid my mom babysat, and others. Sad, but true, but, I didn't really start to cultivate self-esteem until I married the Maharajah, and that's been only within the last 17 years or so.
Too often, I have heard people (I suppose, they think they are being well-intentioned) say, "I am sure she did her best." Well, what if her best wasn't good enough? There is much more to being a PARENT than fucking and squirting a baby into the world. A huge part of being a PARENT is sustaining and protecting a child. As I near the age of 50, I've been working at sustaining and protecting myself and conditioning myself to no longer abide nor make excuses for ABUSE.
It is pretty sobering to think that what my parents thought was "parenting" was in actuality, emotionally damaging abuse. My sister and I each have our own issues to deal with, emotionally and of course our own physical medical issues, yet, somehow, we have managed to escape our abusive past and be considered by most people (and of course, our therapists) to be "high functioning," I look at my brother and look at how much worse he's been damaged--the jury is still out on whether or not he will be able to live on his own independently, or whether his own demons will render him homeless.
Tragic.
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